To Be Loved
by WailingSiren
Summary: Whilst helping a Leprosy-stricken village in Tanzania 2007, Jennifer West is suddenly thrown into the middle of a war and caught in a place she never imagined. She longs to return, until someone holds her back …
1. Chapter 1

_A/N:_ Just a bit tentative to post this. I saw the movie last night ... and well ... gutted I never saw it sooner. A muse has stuck stubbonly in my head. I need to churn it out.

Please let me know what you think. Good? Bad? Ugly?

Kudos.

Update: A big thanks to my beta MissBubbles :)

* * *

**To Be Loved**

_Whilst helping a Leprosy-stricken village in Tanzania 2007, Jennifer West is suddenly thrown into the middle of a war and caught in a place she never imagined. She longs to return, till someone holds her back …_

_"Down in their hearts, wise men know this truth: the only way to help yourself  
is to help others." - **Elbert Hubbard**_

* * *

**October 3rd, 2007 Tanzania**

"Not long now, Jen," grinned Niall to the woman beside him. "Just four more hours."

_Just? _

Jennifer groaned and lolled her face against the Jeep window. Outside, the red landscape of Tanzania rolled past. Women walked by with capering children, balancing baskets on their heads. In the distance, a scarlet sun hung low in the sky.

"S'going to be dark when we get there," she yawned.

"You know what _that_ means," Niall continued in his frustrating impish manner. "Mosquitoes."

Jennifer, too tired to react, rolled up her sweater and cushioned it beneath her shoulder.

"Good thing we had all those jabs then."

"Yup."

Niall checked the wing mirror and saw the five other jeeps behind. He dissected the portly form of Carl, the group leader, looking wan behind the steering wheel. It had been a long, hot and uneventful drive from the small city of Dodoma. Before that, the group of twenty members suffered an exhausting seven hour bus ride from the Dar es Salaam's dusty airport. Much to Jennifer's horror, Niall had eagerly roused the other members into singing drinking songs, which had lasted several hours. Then, if things couldn't get any worse, he had started playing bingo. Jennifer normally wouldn't have minded, but the jetlag was making her as tolerant as a bag of wasps.

Now, as she savoured the cool glass of the window pressing against her skin, she thought of the thirteen-hour long flight from Ulster, Northern Ireland. It seemed incredible that this morning, she was packing her suitcase and listening to Michael Jackson on Radio 1 and now, she was rattling around in a battered Jeep in the Tanzanian wilderness.

She was on a mission. The group was called TLM or The Leprosy Mission and after six-months of meticulous planning, Carl had formalised a project in a small village called Samaria that was riddled with lepers to build five houses. These would replace the inadequate housing that they presently lived in, which were constantly being damaged by the rains.

Shame and superstition had prevented the locals from seeking professional medical care, believing themselves to be 'outcasts' from the world. The root of this stigma was a mystery.

But all that was about to change, Jennifer mused with a small smile. Yes. It was.

_Change. _

Soon, darkness began to fall, and the sky became filled with stars. More stars than Jennifer had ever seen. Niall had fallen silent, and she sensed that he too, regarded the new surroundings with awe. The hours flew by, and Jennifer felt the swift jerk of the Jeep swerving off the dirt-road. Primitive mud-huts and young children were illuminated in the harsh lights of the jeep.

They were here.

"Jenn."

Someone was tapping her shoulder. She awoke to find Niall smiling at her, his slate eyes drooped with fatigue.

"We're here."

She nodded, gathered her bag and opened the door.

The night air was balmy, filled with the chirruping of crickets; loud, twittering, unseen phantoms in the stretching wilderness. The smell of plants and wood smoke floated on the wind, along with the –

"Mosquitoes!" she exclaimed, swatting several away.

She heard Niall chuckle as he unloaded suitcases and bags from the jeep's boot. More jeeps arrived, parking up beside Niall's, their tyres caked with mud.

Carl materialised, scratching his bald head. He looked utterly exhausted.

"Well, this is home for the next sixteen days," he said, as locals began to surround them, pointing excitedly at their entourage. Their chatter made Jennifer glow inside … they were no longer outcasts. A young boy with a bandaged face ran up to gaze at them, wide eyed; the children had never seen white men before.

"It'll be worth it, Carl," she replied, watching this.

"Just as long as we don't have to listen to Niall singing," Carl added, before approaching the village leader, an old man with a long beard. "I'd rather have leprosy any day."

**----**

**October 3rd 1181, Jerusalem **

"More water, sire?"

"Very well."

A stooped, bearded man poured the water carefully from the jug into a crystal cup. He then passed it to his master, King Baldwin IV, who was sitting at his desk. One able hand carefully scratched away on some parchment whilst the other, bandaged, rested on his lap.

He eyed the cup placed before him.

"For your health," said the man, one of Baldwin's physician's, bowing away

Baldwin merely nodded,

_Ah… the unconscious mockery. _

Did these bearded physicians ever see past their poultices? Were they so self-righteous that they thought, had he not been king, they would care, tailor and service him as they did now? Beneath their bearded disguises they wore covert smiles, knowing his existence meant increased payment; meant that they could enjoy the comfort of fine wines, silks, food… women. Why should they care if they exaggerated his condition? 'One breath is contagious,' … 'if you sin, you will become a leper,' … and Baldwin's recent favourite: 'if you stare at the condemned, so you will be condemned and fester away.' Beneath his silver mask, he smirked. He was not one to determine God's will. The Heavenly King was and always would be mysterious; silent to him within his silver coffin.

But King Baldwin was wise enough to judge characters for himself… always articulate… never jumping to conclusions. He knew how to separate the goats from the lambs, the calculating from the candid. The latter always earned his highest respect.

He was not one to assume God's will, but the simple motive of _love _moved kingdoms, ended or saved lives …

He paused in his writing.

He was Jerusalem. And if he fell, so would the people.

_"Why then, was he to rot beneath fine-silk and silver? _

_It was God's choice …. _

The muse hung in the air, before drifting away, like the smoke wafting from the incense sticks on his desk. The place was pungent with spices, floating silks and scrolls stacked neatly on shelves or beneath astrology charts. A sheet of marble carpeted the floor; furs and golden veils of the finest silks surrounded his magnificent bed.

_The luxuries of a king_.

He turned back to his report.

"You may go, Omer,"

The old physician bowed and left the cavernous room. The door closed with a soft thud.

Sunlight filtered through the yellow veils that hung by the windows and Baldwin savoured the heat on his neck. The echoing silence seemed to close in around him, even though he could hear the faint bustle of the city outside – packing up after another day, then waking for the next...

He paused and gazed at his bandaged hand. With his able one, he withdrew the cloth and stared: the flesh was rotting, puckered and sore after years without treatment. Three fingers were missing.

With a sigh that rattled in his lungs, he re-bandaged the hand and continued writing.

-----

**October 4th 2007, Samaria **

Jennifer woke to the sound of singing.

She had never heard anything like it. Rubbing her eyes, she unzipped her tent, and beheld a group of women clapping and dancing in the centre of the village. Behind them, Carl and four other Project members were drawing up construction plans with the help of several villagers.

"It lives!" declared Niall, as Jennifer emerged from the tent. She jumped at the sound of his voice.

"Why did you let me sleep in?" she asked, frowning.

Paragraph

Niall was fully dressed, holding two mugs of tea. They were flimsy, camping-style cups that often made the liquid taste metallic.

He laughed. "I only got up an hour ago …"

Jennifer eyed his tousled hair and smiled. "Fair enough. The singing acted as my alarm."

"Yeah … they're celebrating our arrival," Niall said, handing Jennifer a cup. "Last night everyone was just too …"

"Shattered?" Jennifer offered. She smiled wryly, scrutinising the women and the men gathered around Carl. The boy with the bandaged head stood with an old woman nearby, staring in her direction. She looked away, hating to be in his eye-line. To distract herself, she sipped her tea but almost spat it out again at the taste that assaulted her tongue. "Jesus, Niall, what's in this?"

Her friend began to laugh. "Arsenic." Upon seeing Jennifer pour the tea onto the parched ground, his smile faded. "Sugar, Jen – err …why are you wasting a perfectly good cup of tea?"

Jennifer sighed; early mornings had never been kind to her. She caught sight of a thin woman, and instantly felt guilty in wasting the tea. "You know I don't take sugar, Niall," she stated awkwardly, scratching her neck. The young man shrugged.

"How many lumps did you put in?"

"Five."

"_Five? _Who drinks tea with _five_ lumps? You may as well eat a sugar bowl." Her exasperation made Niall grin. She caught his eye, and felt cheered.

"Anyway, the sooner we start building the better."

He toasted her. "To your health."

She raised her empty cup. "To the village's."

As building got underway, Jennifer began to appreciate their home for the next two weeks. The villagers became part of the project, and were budding helpers, determined to be a part of this vital development. While the project's men and able bodied villagers began building, Jennifer and two other team members, called Claire and Nessa, began to teach the villagers how to treat Leprosy with a medication called MDT - Multiple Drug Treatment.

"It's free," she said to a pregnant woman, who understood some English, "to any Leprosy sufferer in the world. You simply take one of three tablets everyday."

She took a single packet of drugs from her First Aid bag and passed it around the small circle they were sitting in. Behind them, the wall of the first house was being built. The locals examined the tiny tablets with keen interest.

"It safe?" a young man asked her, clad in an over-sized t-shirt.

Jennifer gazed at him and saw that his nose had collapsed; but the hope that shone in his brown eyes was palpable.

"Yes, very safe. If you take each drug over a period of six-months or more, you will be cured."

"They taste nice?" he asked with a smile.

"Not with sugar."

The villagers in the circle laughed. A few children wandered over, attracted by the camaraderie. The boy with the bandaged head was among them. Now that he was close, Jennifer saw that only his eyes were visible; they were a vivid blue.

"Hello," she said kindly, as the children ran about, laughing and joking. Dust rose in clouds from their feet.

He stopped.

Then, to Jennifer's surprise, ran off.

"Do not worry," reassured the pregnant woman beside her. "He is orphan."

Jennifer frowned. "Orphan?"

The woman nodded. "Yes, his father was witch-doctor here. He told us we should live like this. Said there was no cure. He left his wife – also a leper – to die. Now the boy has it."

"Does anyone care for him?"

The woman shrugged. "Some do. Nomusa, village elder, strips his bandage. But you show Christ's love by coming here to build. To help _us."_

"And to help him."

The woman smiled. "Yes. And him."

Concerns about the boy were driven cleanly from Jennifer's mind at the arrival of two young girls, dressed in brightly coloured skirts. They grabbed handfuls of her long hair, staring at her face with childish wonder.

"They have never seen red hair before," laughed the pregnant woman, and Jennifer sensed she was pleased to be off the subject of the Witch-Doctor's son. "We think it's quite disgusting."

Jennifer exchanged bemused looks with the other team members, before bursting into laughter.

"Really? Oh … well I don't know what to say!"

It wasn't just Jennifer's red hair that kept the villagers interested over the next couple of days. As the houses began to grow, so did the team. Family members and friends from neighbouring villages came to help. Women with children on their backs carried sand and mixed the mortar for building. Throughout all of this, the affects of untreated leprosy were thrown into sharper relief. On the fifth day, Jennifer witnessed Niall's exchange with a fingerless man, as the leper helped Niall build his section of the wall.

"I was humbled," Niall admitted later that evening to Jennifer beside a campfire. "It made me think, 'that is why we are here.'"

His cheeks were flushed from the labour, and his shirt specked with mud. Jennifer, on the other hand, had become rather sunburnt. Her red skin clashed horribly with her hair. The straps of her top were digging painfully into her shoulders.

"You're very quiet tonight."

"Oh … it's the sunburn …" Jennifer remarked.

It was a lie.

Her thoughts were once again occupied by the boy with the bandaged head. His electric blue eyes sliced through her mind. Was he an outcast, in a village of outcasts? Just because of his father? One of God's forgotten children. She was just on a simple mission to help a group of people. She was no professional doctor, nor skilled in the art of building. She was part of a group of twenty able-bodied and dedicated team members and that was enough to make a fulfilling difference, especially on her part.

Jeez, Jennifer thought tiredly, these philosophical thoughts were heavier than a pint of Carling. Who would she be next week? Miss World?

"I … think I might take a lie down, Niall," she murmured.

Niall observed her with concern. "So soon?"

She hated the surprise in his voice. "Yes. I'm tired."

As she stood up, Niall muttered, "you're always tired."

"I heard that."

He looked at her, eyebrows raised. "Well it's true. I haven't spoken to you properly for days."

"I can't help it if I'm tired, Niall," Jennifer replied, fighting to keep calm. She was easily annoyed when she hadn't had enough sleep. "We came to do a job."

"Is that all you think this is?"

"It _is _what it _is, _Niall - to help people."

Niall scowled. "And to help ourselves, by learning from and remembering the experience."

Jennifer rubbed her temples. Now she was getting a headache. "_We_ don't need this – _they_ do."

"Yes … obviously, but –"

"- Their need is greater than ours, Niall," Jennifer interrupted crossly. "Or have you forgotten that?"

She snatched up her bag and pulled on her sweater, accidentally putting her head through one of the sleeves. Niall offered to help but she brushed him aside.

"Fine," he said, hands raised. "I'll let you calm down before you become 'the Cantankerous Monster of Samaria."

His attempt to alleviate the situation only provoked Jennifer's anger further. She said nothing and stormed away. Several villagers watched her go, but she didn't care. Niall was right; she needed to calm down. There was no need to make a scene… but that was how she was: easily angered, but just as easily placated. Just like her mother back home in Ulster.

She leaned against a tree, staring up into the star-strewn sky. The fires crackled in the distance, glowing like orange orbs.

Home. She hadn't thought about it much. The events in Samaria had filled her mind. They were fifteen hours ahead, but somewhere, across the world, her mum was watching the television and enjoying a takeaway with her beloved younger brother, Laurence. She smiled as she remembered them all settling down to watch Coronation Street, the night before she left. They had opened a bottle of Morrisons's champagne, and toasted her participation in the Help Hombolo Mission. Just five days ago.

"Is it true, we share the same moon?"

The voice made her jump. She squinted through the darkness and dissected the silhouette of a small boy from the shadows around him. He could have been a ghost.

_The boy. _

Catching her breath, she nodded.

"Yes."

The boy moved closer.

"The same stars?"

"Yes."

Her voice was calmer now; determined, perhaps, to question the boy now that he

was here.

"I saw you the other day."

His voice was soft.

"And I saw you…"

She paused, before deciding to act the parent.

"What … what are you doing out here?"

He stared at her with his large, blue eyes. They looked pale in the moonlight.

"Praying."

"Praying?"

"Yes. The tree where you stand was where we were going to build our church. The rains destroyed the last one. God does not favour this patch of land … nor its people."

With a fingerless hand, he pointed to a roughly made crucifix, buried in the ground.

"I pray, but God does not cure me," he continued in his small voice. "You will. Will you help me?"

Jennifer sank to the boy's level.

"Yes," she said. "Of course I will help you."

"You don't give me pity," the boy said, azure eyes searching her face. "You give me hope."

With a single finger, he slowly peeled away the bandages from his face. The skin around his eyes was scabbed and swollen, making them look sunken. His nose was gone, and his mouth was curved upwards like a harelip. His eyes were watering.

"I'm dying," he said.

Jennifer looked away, her tumbling locks concealing the tears in her eyes.

"No … you're going to live."

"Don't cry."

The boy's voice was sharp, endeavouring her to reply quickly in defence.

"I'm not."

She reached out and clasped the boy's hands in her own and slowly he relaxed into her hug, sinking against her chest, his dark, tanned skin a stark contrast against her own; pale and sunburnt.

She could feel the boy's heartbeat, faintly beneath his ragged Nike t-shirt. The forgotten boy… Why should he wear a shirt bearing the logo of a rich, soulless company? A company that owned sweat-shops? What did they know of a little boy's pain?

She closed her eyes. "God gave us freewill and the intelligence to help his world. But I do … what I do. I'm no great shakes you know. Just a girl." She laughed shakily, attempting to inject some humour into the sorrow bricking up inside of her.

The boy spoke, his voice muffled against her mop of russet hair.

"Yes. I believe you…"

Suddenly, an icy blast of wind began to whistle violently through the trees, making the trunks creak ominously. Jennifer's head began to spin, her whole body suddenly weightless, as if she was suspended in water … the world was a swirling plughole of lights, unearthly groans and chill wind. The boy and the muggy night in Tanzania vanished, and Jennifer departed into a world of solid darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I. Am. So. Sorry for not posting sooner. A big thanks to everyone who has reviewed/alerted/read/skimmed this story. I have been so busy lately with things, so I hope this chapter makes up for it.

Please review and leave constructive feedback :)

**

* * *

**

**To Be Loved**

"_Through humour, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it.__" - __**Bill Cosby**_

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Chapter Two

She smelt dust, clawing at her nose. She tasted dirt, and felt rocks piercing flesh. A harsh light shone through her eyelids, as though somebody was shining a torch into her face. As her body registered the bizarre, painful position she was in, her mind began to fast-forward. One, alarming thought occurred:

_What, in the name of all things Holy, had happened?_

Hesitantly, Jennifer opened her eyes.

She gasped, or she tried to, still breathless from her...fall? The flat, stretching plateau of Tanzania was gone; the dim voices of the villagers by the fires had vanished - nothing more but ghosts on the wind and the boy ..._the boy _was now a mere, taunting phantom. But his eyes sliced through her thoughts like a knife; clear as day.

Numbly, Jennifer observed her new surroundings. She was sitting atop a large, stony hill. People robed in black hurried past, murmuring feverishly beneath their breath. Not one person seemed to have noticed that a twenty-year old woman had dropped into their midst.

She urgently scanned the hill for Niall, the glowing fires, the portly form of Carl or the rev of a jeep. Nothing. All was but rock and stone, compressing tentative tufts of grass that poked through the parched soil.

A large, spherical tower caught Jennifer's attention. Its spire glowed orange in the sunlight. Dawn was approaching, painting a canvas of buildings all around the hill. Countless stone structures, adorned with a patchwork of stalls began to materialise. In the far distance, she saw a large stone wall patrolled by what were unbelievably, yet unmistakably, knights dressed in white and red surcoats. She rubbed her eyes; they were _actually _carrying spears.

Before she could ponder the reason why they weren't already arrested for carrying such formidable weapons, a haunting noise distracted her from them. At the foot of the hill, a large crowd of men were on their knees, bowing and chanting in the direction of the rising sun. They moved as one, like rhythmic waves in a tranquil sea.

_Muslims, _she thought hazily, dragging a hand through her mop of hair, _I must be in __…__Palestine__ or somewhere __…__ yeah __…_

_It__'__s all a silly dream ... __j__ust a dream... I__'__ll wake up in a minute __…__ Niall will wake me up __…_

She desperately shut her eyes and counted to ten. Nothing happened.

She shut them again. And pinched herself.

"Ouch!"

Nothing happened.

Sighing, and royally unamused, Jennifer got to her feet. She realised that she was wearing the same clothes she'd had on in Tanzania; her horribly tight tank-top, musty-coloured shorts and a sweater, which was tied around her waist. And nearby, was –

"There it is!"

Jennifer snatched up her first aid bag, giddy with relief. At least _something _from Tanzania had returned. Inside were her most precious items: wallet, photos, Swiss-army knife and a few MDT tablets. Frantically, she delved inside and withdrew a bulky satellite phone. Even if Niall and the others were in the Arctic, she could contact them on this beauty.

She punched in the emergency number, and waited. Nothing happened. Only silence. She tried again...nothing.

Her fingers clenched the plastic exterior and she suppressed the urge to chuck the thing away. So it was useless; just a piece of junk. Well, even if she was in unfamiliar, primitive surroundings, there had to be at least _one _phone hanging around.

Spurred by this simple notion, she hitched up her bag and began to descend the hill.

- - - - -

Tiberias, Marshall of Jerusalem, paced the streets with heavy feet and certainly with a heavy heart. The innumerable crowds jostled past, speaking in a variety of tongues.

Reynald de Chatillon was treading on a knife edge. If he had the proof that Reynald and his lackey, the detestable Guy de Lusignan, were plotting more unprovoked and brutal raids on Muslim caravans, neither would be at large today. Any month now, Saladin, the Kurdish leader, would just have to say the single word..."war"...and everything that his King had worked for – the peace between Muslim and Christian – would be lost in bloodshed.

God, Reynald could get away with anything. Even murder. It took a desperate man to believe his lies, but a better man to notice the covert slurs spouting from his repulsive lips.

Tiberias knew this. The King knew this.

_So why then was the man still free?_

He paused at one of the watering wells, where civilians moved about carrying buckets, washing their faces or allowing livestock to drink. The sun was hot today.

He was about to take a sip from his waterskin, when a hunched man staggered up to him. His face was cloaked with a long, dirty shawl.

"Long day ahead, eh, Tiberias?" they wheezed, jowls aquiver. "I see the King has no use for you … wandering the streets."

Tiberias flinched away from the man; he was best viewed at a distance.

"I get that reaction often enough," laughed the cloaked man in wheezy tones.

Tiberias's face darkened and he frogmarched the hunched man away from the crowds, into a side street. His voice was full of warning.

"Hubert."

"You recognise me still?" Hubert wheezed, glaring from beneath his frayed hood. The old man scrutinised Tiberias closely. "It's been a while. How goes you, eh?"

"Of course I recognise you ... Hubert," Tiberias intoned curtly, scratching his scrub of a beard with long fingers. "You should not be wandering close to water. You could be hanged."

Hubert grinned. Several of his teeth were missing. "I must wait for the rains, although unfortunately, they do not come plentiful in these parts. God would rather see me suffer, begging for money … a lesser mortal. But so would you. You'd both see me squirm … oh … cruel world … cruel world indeed. I am not fit to drink with the masses; the same water that our fathers drank. The same water that sheep and goats and cattle drink from. Oh … alas, cruel world!."

He made to turn away, but Tiberias called him back.

"I had no choice, Hubert."

Hubert stood stock-still, his hunched shadow stretching across the brick-walled houses. Tiberias had once been his master; his friend. He had served as a knight under his command, until –

"It was God's choice," Hubert muttered darkly, although every word was clear. "God's choice that I should be a leper. At least that was what the Bishop told me. You mustn't challenge God."

Without another word, he shuffled away down the alleyway and out of sight, leaving Tiberias to his guilty, conflicted thoughts.

- - - -

"Phone!" Jennifer repeated to an old woman, not far from the hill. _"__Phone!_ So I can ring … friends!" she gestured the aforementioned object with her hands, but the old woman burst out laughing, speaking in fluent Arabic.

It was fruitless.

That was the fifth person she'd tried, but everyone was acting so … brainless! There wasn't a single car in sight; no shops, no lampposts, office blocks, telephone wires … the place was practically medieval. They even _looked _at her funnily, Jennifer thought unhappily. Was she the only woman to wear a top and shorts that exposed a little flesh? Or to have wild, red hair? She fingered the grimy roots and shuddered.

When a mother and daughter hurried past, pointing and whispering, Jennifer snatched a filthy cloak hanging from a balcony. It covered her body but felt scratchy and suffocating in the intense heat.

Everything seemed to move slowly … dream-like. The crowds were a blur, oddly distorted in the shimmering heat. The only things in focus were her hands. Gods; this place was awful – the smell of manure mingled with spices floated in the air, rising from fires erected at intervals along the streets. She felt ghost-like … excluded; regarded with the same tolerance given to a stray dog. After hours of futile wandering Jennifer's thoughts reached an infinite standstill. She was just about ready to give in to the heat and hopelessness, when a hunched man caught her eye. He was heckling people for money – his bandaged hands outstretched …

_B__andages __…_

Her hazy mind was punctured by a fit of inspiration and cautiously, Jennifer approached him.

"Are you a leper?" she probed. A clawed, lesion-infested hand removed a shawl; the planes of his face were sharp, the tanned skin crevassed around a wasted mouth and deep-set, accusing eyes. His nose had completely collapsed; hollowed, as if by a scalpel.

"So what if I am?"

He was _challenging her. _This, she hadn't expected, though she welcomed it; it acted as a distraction from the hot and mundane city surrounding them.

"If you can tell me what city this is and what year we are in, I'll cure you."

The leper began to laugh. "I … I think you've lost your mind, miss."

"Why?"

"You jest?"

"Why should I?"

"Are you mad?"

"Will you _please _stop answering my questions _with_ questions!"

Jennifer's temper, which had simmered all day from lack of help, was reaching boiling point.

"I think you're more ill than I am!"exclaimed the leper, in a voice that carried through the street. "Losing your mind, so young! Oh … cruel world! There be no hope for Lepers now the young perish!"

Jennifer kneeled, grabbing the front of his shawl. "I can help you," she hissed. "If you help me, I _will _help you. Deal?"

The grin slid from the leper's face, and he eyed her closely. "Deal?" The word faded and he stared closer, as if to find a lie in Jennifer's words. His clawed hands wrung themselves in thought, and he spoke, eyes downcast. "Why do you mock me? Is it a bet? Are you like the Templars, who scrape up the dredges of this Kingdom then torture them for entertainment? I have nothing to offer! God's bones, Miss!"

Jennifer closed her eyes; her exasperation fuelled by the sun, the strange surroundings and the pitiful leper. "What … year … is this and where am I?" She clenched his wrist. "Answer me!"

"J-Jerusalem! T-the year is 1181, the year of our Lord!""

Jennifer was staggered. "_What?_"

"Yes … Tis 1181, the reign of King Baldwin IV."

Jennifer bit down hard on her tongue and tasted the metallic tang of blood. "Thank you, old man ...Now, would you come with me, so that I can see to your illness?" She offered her hand, but the leper looked at her as if she'd gone mad. Jennifer thought that perhaps she had.

"You would touch me? A fair woman, such as you? Noticing me is insanity enough."

Losing patience and angered by the slight on her sanity, which she herself was beginning to doubt, Jennifer stooped and forced the old man to his feet. "I'm a profound humanitarian," she said. The leper stumbled on his bandaged feet. "Although, perhaps not a wholly learned woman where I'm from." She allowed herself a smile. "But simple acts of kindness are comforting especially in this dusty place, you know what I mean?"

The leper struggled to find his voice. "I – you – are you of … noble birth?"

Council flats, smoke-choked pubs and the run-down office of the TLM flitted across Jennifer's mind, then faded like the sinister smoke that sometimes wafted over from the nearby abattoir, opposite to where she lived. "No. Definitely not," she remarked, steadying the leper as he stumbled along the bustling streets. The dusty air was making her eyes water. "Certainly not from a high-born background, but I believe –" Speaking was proving difficult, the eyes of Crusaders and peasants alike seemed to follow like those of predators, fuelling the growing paranoia Jennifer was feeling. Her minds-eye was even less-kind; glittering swords swung through the relentless heat as punishment for touching a leper, slicing away her memories of home. She cursed. "Do you have a … I don't know …" She paused. Where could he live? Homeless people often stayed in shelters, but in this place the sick and poor were left on the streets like garbage. Perhaps he stayed in a … a _pigsty? Or a stable? _No way, she couldn't say that …

She gave up, and simply said: "Do you have a ... _room _I can take you too?"

He nodded.

"Then take me."

Thankfully, the old leper did, without hindrance or incessant babblings. He took Jennifer to a rundown building at the foot of the city, where the Jordan ran as a ribbon of turquoise, below the dreamlike mountainous skyline. A collapsed cot lay sunken in a corner; empty bottles of wine, feathers and chicken bones littered the floor, making it look as though a starving dog resided here.

But no; this was the house of a leper.

"Welcome …to my most humblest of abodes, Miss," the leper remarked dryly, settling himself down on the cot. "Outside is the banquet hall and we have servants providing fresh wine in the tranquil gardens to your right. Tonight, we shall have salted pork." He moved slowly, and Jennifer recognised that the leprosy had worsened possible arthritis Upon removing his shawl he revealed a mane of grizzled hair, which hung limply around his shoulders.

Her face was sombre.

"I've been to places where Lepers have lived in shelters made of mud. At least you have the city at your doorstep."

"I sleep like a dog," the leper remarked.

"How long have you lived like this?"

He grinned crookedly. "Ten years, since I was banished from Tiberias's table. I was a Knight," he continued in response to Jennifer's look of confusion. "I was stabbed in the hand by Guy de Lusignan. We were arguing, because … my_ wife_ bore a bastard son. They both now rest with the Lord."

"– I'm sorry." She put aside the shawl, which was causing her to fidget uncontrollably. The leper cast aside her apology with one rotting hand.

"I was an unworthy husband. That was proven when Guy realised that no blood poured from the wound, nor did I feel any pain. He alerted Tiberias and _that _old fool had _no choice _but to banish me onto the streets." There was a chill in his voice, full of bitterness concealed behind the lesions. Jennifer saw, fleetingly, a fierce warrior staring back at her.

It stunned her.

Her own grandfather had endured a lot of hardships: cancer, jail, alcohol-abuse, liver failure … and then dying in jail. But this …

Her thoughts flew back to the veteran.

"Do you wish to be cured?"

"I had no intentions of dying a leper."

Jennifer wasn't sure how to continue. Doubt began to creep into her mind; was she doing the right thing? If she truly had fallen into the past, impossible as it may seem, was it right to reveal a cure for a disease that should remain incurable for hundreds of years to come? Could she truly alter the world?

"At least tell me your name, Miss elusive traveller, who claims she can rid me of leprosy, as Jesus could."

Jennifer began to unzip her bag. "Jennifer. Yours?"

He laughed and she eyed him wearily, although the sound seemed to be one of humour rather than scathing. The mangled mouth was shaped by neither a snarl, nor a sneer, but seemed used to laughing – or had, once upon a time.

Hubert clicked his tongue with mirth. "Tchhhh, what kind of a name is Jennifer?"

Jennifer shrugged. "It's Welsh for Guinevere – from King Arthur stories. Not that that had much of an influence. My mother just liked the name, although she insisted on calling me Jenny. She stopped whenever I got really annoyed about it though."

"Literature! You know of Monmouth's King Arthur!" the leper declared fondly. "You are learned?" So far as 21st century mainstream education would allow, Jennifer mused dryly. "And a woman too…"

Jennifer scoffed at his astonishment. "Tell me your name."

"Hubert Doge," the leper replied, before quickly shifting to another topic he was keen to discuss with the woman sitting beside him. "So … so where are _you_ from, then?"

"Ireland." Oh God, she thought, don't tell me Ireland is considered to be some heathen Isle, in these times? Surely her people were just as cultured as those from any other country? Not swinging from trees and galumphing around in loin-cloths. For the first time since she'd arrived here, Jennifer felt protective of her country.

"Ireland!" repeated Hubert wondrously, "Of course! Look at you! Look at your hair!" Jennifer didn't know whether he was insulting or complimenting her. The red, frowsy mop that could be called hair fell limply down her back. She smiled anyway. "Ay, ay, ay … what is this thing?"

Hubert's attention was attracted to the stethoscope checking his heart beat. "It feels cold!"

"So you have feeling in your chest. Good," said Jennifer. "This is called a stethoscope. It checks your heartbeat. Listen." She placed the earpieces into Hubert's ears, and he listened with wonder. This amused her.

"It can't be!"

"It is."

Jennifer, now grinning, withdrew a series of plasters. "Now,_ these_ will cover the serious sores on your skin. Firstly, I'll have to examine you fully," Hubert stared at her, and she laughed aloud. "My intentions are purely medical!"

Hubert returned the laugh. "Being noticed by you is remedial enough."

Slowly, he stripped his torso bare. It wasn't as bad as Jennifer had first thought, even after ten whole years without treatment. His shoulders were smothered with sores but his withered chest was free of lesions. She collected some water from a bucket outside and dampened some cloths to clean the sores, then applied the plasters to the most afflicted areas. She worked in silence, swapping small smiles with Hubert, who only gazed at her with admiration.

"My only blessing, Jennifer is ... my eyesight," Hubert croaked a while later, as the city bustled outside "I can neither taste nor smell with this wretched stump of a nose but… I can see so clearly; you work unflinchingly. How can this be so? How can this miracle be happening within this city, in my abode?"

She shrugged. "Well … it is the Holy city, I suppose."

"Your – your coming is like that of the messiah!"

This alarmed Jennifer_. __"__No,__"_ she chided, "that is an overstatement, Hubert. A _huge_ overstatement," she fiercely ripped another bandage to wrap around his hands. "Many people I know help the less-fortunate, but that doesn't make them any more or less significant than me." She bandaged his hands. "I do what I do."

"Ay, you do," Hubert replied quietly, "God bless you."

"And you too. Now … time for the ultimate treatment, my friend." She smiled broadly, as she withdrew the plastic packets of MDT. They rattled surreally in the primitive, cave of a house.

"These are tablets. There are three kinds, called: rifampicin, clofazimine and dapsone. Rifacampin is given once a month, and clofazimine and dapsone are administered daily to perk you up, or … to speed up the process," she broke off, gazing at the look of bewilderment Hubert was giving the drugs. "They will cure you. After six-months you won't be infected any more. Although … you will still have your disfigurements."

She glanced at him uncertainly, but Hubert's face was a mask of happiness. "I've had my ruddy face like this for years and I don't care. It's who I am. It's my face; but if I know I will no longer die next year and am rid of these hellish sores then I say proceed! I trust you! I'm old! I am disposable if you fail."

Jennifer quirked an eyebrow. "No life is a waste. But let's just say, Hubert … you won't be dying tomorrow."


End file.
